Uh, oops

The holiday on Monday kind of messed me up.

I walked around all day yesterday thinking it was Monday.

My obliviousness continued as I was sitting poolside with the kids, sunning, and congratulating myself on having such a fine, carefree life.

At about three-thirty, I glanced at the calendar on my phone and realized my mistake. A mere half hour before Hannah had a mandatory rehearsal for her dance recital. And an hour before Chase had track practice. And an hour and a half before McKay had baseball.

Needless to say, there was a little bit of cursing.

And a lot of scrambling.

Thankfully, we made it to all three, in large part due to some awesome friends who had left messages offering to carpool. Mindy and Beckie, I owe you one. You girls are the best, and you totally saved my hide.

It was a crazy few hours yesterday.

And so I offer my apologies to you How-To Tuesday devotees. Those of you who put your posts up, patiently waiting for me, the blog host who never showed up to her own party.

I'll try to get my act together a little better next time.

Share with us your wisdom anyway, won't you?

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Waterloo in the backyard

Our neighborhood does not contain a whole lot of children.

We did not know that fact when we chose to purchase this home. We (like all the really old folks surrounding us) were lured in by the siren song of the HOA paying for lawn care and snow removal. It has been nice living here, in spite of the guilt I feel when I see all of our 90-year-old neighbors vacuuming their lawns for six hours a day, while my yard sits as the one blight on the street, shamefully un-vacuumed.

And mine the one back literally strong enough to do it. Go figure.

But the kids do not lack for friends. There is a neighborhood adjoining ours that is full of playmates, and at least several days per week there are strangers' offspring rooting around in my pantry for after-school snacks. It's great and I love it.

There is one boy, however, who lives down the street and - for reasons unfathomable to me - hates my children. We have invited him over countless times, and each time our invitation has been met with an excuse about the important date he has with his video games. Shrugging our shoulders, we moved on to other friends, and have not mourned the loss of his company.

The problem with this kid is that he is constantly challenging the neighborhood boys to duels of physicality. A baseball pitching contest. A basketball tournament. A foot race. These challenges are always issued with insults and spite -- and he has yet to win any of them.

He reminds me slightly of Napoleon (Bonaparte, that is, not Dynamite). He is short, angry, and determined to conquer the world and everyone in it.

The problem with the war he is waging on McKay lies with me. I have this innate psycho need to be liked. And to have my children liked. I can't fathom what we have done to offend him, and feel that he must be brought to reason. He MUST not know how awesome we are, otherwise he could not possibly dislike us. Surely, he has just not looked closely at our strengths of character, wit, and charm. I mean, we are likable people! We are funny! We are charming! We I have issues!

I am constantly interjecting into the strategy conferences between McKay and his allies that maybe all Napoleon needs is to be invited over for cookies and ice cream.

These suggestions are met with blank stares and questions regarding my sanity.

Apparently, war is not resolved over homemade chocolate chip cookies.

It is decided on the basketball court with a very short, hateful boy named Napoleon who does not like me my children.

And it is okay.

Or so they tell me, while I sit rocking in the corner mumbling, "But why? Why doesn't he like me?"

Don't worry. I'll be all right. Eventually.

Not seeing the boy

He walks through the door, dropping his jacket and backpack in a large heap behind him. I trip over his shoes as I bend down to grab the wrapper from his after-school snack off the floor.

"Do you have any homework?" I ask, wearily.

He launches into a tirade of all the projects he is working on. I groan, knowing just how much time all those things will take.

Grabbing a paper towel, I wipe up the milk he has just spilled. I snap at him for his carelessness. Reaching for another towel, I stumble over his trumpet case.

In an instant, all the petty annoyance bubbles up and spills over. I chew him out for not practicing often enough, making threats about canceling his trumpet lessons. I move to the projects he has coming up, and remind him angrily that he better get them done before scouts. I grit my teeth and spew venom about the mess he has made on the counter.

I turn around to continue my rant, and notice his blue eyes fill with tears. He hangs his head and apologizes softly. He promises he will practice more. He reaches for his backpack to start on homework, as the tears spill over his lightly freckled cheeks.

Guilt and regret instantly turn my irrational rage into compassion.

I move across the room and take him into my arms. I apologize for snapping at him, and tell him that I love him. He sobs quietly, as he tells me how overwhelmed he is feeling today. How the projects at school seem insurmountable, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to find the time to get it all done.

I wonder then how I didn't notice the sagging shoulders and somber expression when he walked in the door.

How could I only see the mess and the shoes, and miss the boy completely?

I curse myself, wishing I could take it all back and start again. Today was a total mom fail. Doesn't matter that I am right. He does need to practice more. Those projects have to get done before he runs off to play. He should have been more careful with the milk.

But he's only a kid.

And he's my kid.

And today, instead of noticing that he needed to be picked up, I knocked him down. Instead of being that safe, warm place to come home to, I hit him with anger and annoyance the minute he walked through the door.

I need to remember when I'm tired and cranky, that I have no right to take it out on him. I need to look first, and yell later (or not at all). I need to be grateful that I have such a good kid. A kid who gets straight A's, is friends with everyone, and always tries to help those around him. I need to tell him how much I love him, and how proud I am of who he is.

Because at the end of the day, the trumpet, the milk, and the homework do not matter one bit. What matters is that he knows just how much his mama loves him.

Here's to a new year and a new me

Oh, internet. Words cannot begin to express my gratitude at your heartfelt empathy, sympathy, and love on my behalf. You are just plain good. When I think that the majoirty of you have never even met me in real life, your sweet words are that much more touching.

Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. It was not easy to put that post out there. It is hard for me to put my weaknesses on display - be they real or perceived. I have a hard time letting my guard down. But this blog has become such an important record of my life that I felt I could not let such a soul changing, monumental experience go unwritten about. And yet you embraced me anyway. And made me wish we could all sit around in my living room, large slices of coconut cake on our laps, and laugh and cry over it all in person. Please tell me there is a way to make that happen? Someday?

Anyway, when I saw this video on my real-life friend Katie's blog - I knew I had to share it here and make it my new motto for the year. I love it. Made me laugh and made me cry. My two favorite emotions rolled into one.

No more looking back. Only moving forward.

Trying desperately to turn the glass upside down

I am not a glass half-full kind of girl.

I would like to be, but it is just not in my nature.

For example: A bad haircut can dissolve my seemingly rational self into a puddle of tears that lasts several hours, and continues every morning for oh, say, about six months or so.

Also? I am the person that will always react first, and think later.

I frequently resent the consequences of my own choices.

And I even pout in bad weather and cast blame on the universe for its conspiracy to ruin my life.

(Why, yes, I am a treat to be married to. Thanks for asking.)

In short? I'm a two-year-old temper tantrum in a 36 - almost 37 -year-old body. So naturally, when a minor [albeit highly annoying] medical issue* crops up in my life, I do what every sane, rational, intelligent grown-up would do:

I cry and feel horribly sorry for myself. For weeks at a time.

Turns out? I'm really, really good at that. Might be my best talent even.

Only it doesn't take very long and my kids are affected by it, and in puddles of tears themselves. My husband feels helpless and worried that this beast who has come to visit is his new wife.

And at the end of the day, I still feel angry and sorry for myself with the same problems that I had when I woke up. That isn't exactly the way I want to go through life.

So, I'm doing what most of you probably learned long ago: I'm sucking it up and focusing on the good things in my life. Like the fact that I have this awesome man who loves me (in spite of me) and works very hard to support my ridiculously lavish lifestyle. I have three beautiful, healthy, happy children who just want a mom that doesn't cry all the time. I have a wonderful home with all the comforts anyone could ever ask for (and then some). I have friends who love me and bring me dinner and diet cokes. I have family who call ALL THE TIME to see if I'm okay.

And in spite of the fact that the universe probably still has it in for me weather-wise, I think it's safe to say that I'm doing all right. My life is a good one. And I'm going to be okay.

Just wanted to say it out loud.

[*Yes, I am okay. No, I don't want to talk about it. It's truly not a big deal and I will be fine. Thanks to you sweet internet friends who noticed my absence and checked in on me. You all rock.]

She's trying her darndest to save my soul

There is a new master in my life:

Thanks to the Hannah, I have been made to be accountable for my sins:

Apparently, girlfriend doesn't like it when the mama swears.

I would not think of myself as a foul-mouthed fiend. I don't swear in casual conversation with friends. I do not ever swear at my children in a fit of temper. And I have yet to fling any expletives at the Husband during marital, ahem, disagreements.

But occasionally, a mild swear slips through my fingers on the keyboard and ends up here as a joke. Or I drop something heavy on my foot and grumble a less-than-choice word in frustration.

Like the hell word.

Or the damn word.

Very rarely, maybe a version of the son-of-a-beyotch word.

Most certainly never the F word. [Unless that word is the frick word. Guilty of that one a lot.]

But on our recent trip to Utah, my lack of appropriate language when joking with my brothers brought Miss Hannah to tears. Her little heart overflowed with worry for my soul. With pleading green eyes, she looked up at me and softly asked why I keep breaking the commandments.

I had no answer.

Clearly, saying to my brother on the phone, who was leaving work to meet us all for dinner, "Hurry up, dammit!" does not a joke make in the mind of Prudence McPrude Hannah.

And so I have acquiesced. After all, were those same words to escape my children's lips, there would most certainly be hell heck to pay.

So consider this my formal resignation from the use of bad language on this blog.

No more hell. Or damn. Or even frick.

[Shoot. I just totaled up the number of quarters alone this post is going to cost me, and I think somebody will be a few dollars richer by the end of the day.]

Crap. [&#@!!#]

Marveling at my awesome parenting once again

Last Sunday, I noticed my middle child limping and hobbling on our way into church. Crabby, tired, and short on patience, I told him to knock it off.

Also? The Mother of the Year people just called. My award is on its way.

He looked up at me with sadness in his startlingly blue eyes and said, "I'm sorry, mom. My toes are just scrunched up in my shoes and they really hurt."

After giving myself 6,000 lashes with the belt made entirely out of guilt, I apologized and promised to get him some new shoes this week.

It really shouldn't have surprised me. The new Sunday pants I bought him at Easter? Like three inches too short now. I don't know what this kid is eating that is so different than the others. Nobody else is sprouting ankles out of their pants by the hour. An inch or two every year at best. But this one? He's grown about three inches in the last few months alone.

So yesterday we headed over to the mall. I started at Macy's, figuring I'd buy his forgiveness make up for the insensitive remark by treating him to a great pair of shoes from a respectable department store. I also wanted to hit the MAC counter for myself. The day was all about him. Making him feel special and loved.

Only, much to my dismay, I discovered that he has completely outgrown the children's sizes, and is now smack dab in the middle of the men's shoe sizes.

Sweet. fancy. moses.

Have you ever seen how expensive men's dress shoes are? Ain't no way I'm dropping $150 on a pair of shoes that, in all likelihood, will fit him for about eight minutes. I rarely spend that much money on my OWN shoes.

So I lied and told him I didn't think any of the shoes there looked good and steered him toward Famous Footwear. Where the shoes were only $90.

And then I steered him towards Sears, where the shoes were only $60.

By this time, I was running out of excuses as to why I felt the stores just didn't have his style. I think he believed me after the first store. But by store three, he was looking at me like I had totally lost it.

We ended up at *gasp* Payless, and I gladly forked over $40 for a pair of surprisingly decent-looking dress shoes. It still pained me slightly, knowing that he only wears them a few hours every week, but it was definitely better than the alternatives.

Here's hoping they fit him for more than a month.

Because, really, if anybody is going to be spending the Husband's hard-earned money on more shoes around here, it definitely ought to be me.

Putting the trash out (a.k.a: Keeping it real)

Travelin' Oma wrote a very thought-provoking post yesterday. She talked about assessing whether the posts we write are real reflections of our true selves or if they are merely the best of us put on display. (She really says it much more eloquently than that. Click over and read her post. You won't be sorry).

But it got me thinking about my own blog and the part of my life that I choose to reveal here.

Do I often intentionally put my best foot forward, ignoring my many faults and failings?

You bet I do.

I don't want to look back years from now at this silly record of our everyday lives and wonder if all I did was complain about how annoying my kids are.

But I also don't want to look back and know that the sugary sweetness I posted about was not how I really felt every second of every day.

It's a tricky balance - sorting between the reality of our lives and the way we'd like them to be.

In hopes of striking a more symmetrical record, I am going to treat you to a little bit of my trash today. It is with much trepidation that I give you a taste of the real Stie, in all her grainy, un-photoshoppped, un-made up, bags-under-the-eyes glory:

Yikes.

This is the sight the Husband gets has to see first thing every morning. Poor guy.

And for your judging pleasure, here are a few real things about me that you may or may not have known:

I am a clean freak, but that does not mean there are not scary closets and drawers in my house. I have a storage room in my basement, as we speak, that would cause anyone great physical injury if they tried to walk through it, so mountainous are the massive piles of stuff.

I am very vain. I spend a lot of time worrying about what I look like. I will not go to the store without my hair done and my face fully made up. I absolutely think sweats should never be seen in public. And, yes, I judge those who do.

I am also highly self-critical. You would think with all that time spent primping that I would be more happy with what I see in the mirror. I'm not. I constantly second guess every single thing I do and say. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be good enough for myself.

I am not good with confrontation. If I have an issue to work out with someone, I am of the, "let's bury it deep and never speak of it again" variety. Passive aggressive, much? I wrote the book on it.

Lastly, I sometimes dread the hours between three and five p.m. every day. While I am excited to see my kids come home, I really dislike helping them with homework. They're all tired, cranky, talking a mile a minute, and seem to need something from me at the exact same minute. I've also usually procrastinated and am trying to get dinner ready during that time, as well. I feel pulled in so many different directions that some days I think my head will explode. It's my least favorite time of the day.

So there you have it. A little bit of reality - for better or for worse.

What I'd really like to see now is YOUR reality. Post a picture of yourself sans make-up, and put a little bit of the trash out for the rest of us to see. That way, years from now when we think we were nothing but perfect, we'll know the real truth.

And we'll like each other all the more for it.

I am three days sober. Pass me a celebratory donut, will you?

Hi. My name is Christie, and I am a food-a-holic.

Hi, Christie.

(That was your line, by the way)

I have spent the better part of the last six months indulging my inner she-devil. You know the one. The one that convinces you it will be okay to make just one more batch of cookies. Or brownies. Or an 8,000-calorie coconut cake, for that matter.

I have also given her full reign over the restaurant menus and ordered things that were decidedly not green. Things that were chock-full of delicious carbs and fat. Things that were served with a side order of french fries. Buried under a mound of cheese. Topped with a half-gallon of sauce. Smothered in sugar and ice cream. Deep fried and wrapped in a chocolate burrito.

You get the point.

She has been my long-time companion, sitting idly on my shoulder, shouting out her temptations. And, true to form, that devilish fiend was nowhere to be found one morning when I questioned her judgement after not being able to button up my favorite jeans. She's such a fair weather companion, that one. Always ready to help me pile on the pounds; not around to take any of the blame.

So, I boldly stared at my chubby face in the mirror, and said ENOUGH.

And that was three days ago.

With three days under my belt, I can now remember that it feels good to eat well. I find myself much more able to crawl out of bed in the morning to face life (and the scale) when I'm eating healthy. I have more energy. I feel prettier. And let's face it: I'm a nicer wife and mom.

I know that I am a food addict. I crave the bad food. I dream about it. I experience a rush of pleasure every time I indulge myself in it. And, sadly, when the rush ends and all that remains is a belly ache, I feel the guilt. I feel sick. I hate myself. I have battled this demon most of my life and know how the cycle plays itself out. And still, knowing that never seems to make it any easier. It's just hard.

When your penchant runs to food, you can't eliminate the addiction from your life. You have to manage it, reason with it, and keep it in bounds. It's hard to abstain when you have to eat a little of your drug of choice every day to survive. When you have to prepare it for others.

So I'm taking it one day at a time (and sometimes, one hour at a time). I'm determined to do this. I'm going to get this beast back in her cage before the real demon rears its ugly head: HALLOWEEN CANDY BARS.

Lord give me strength.

The Week of Josh

Last week, as we do every year, we celebrated the Husband's birthday and Father's Day - all within a few days of each other.

He has dubbed it, "The Week of Josh," and makes demands for cakes, presents, and celebratory honor all week long.

I roll my eyes each and every year, groaning out loud, and wondering when it will ever be the Week of Stie. The children, however, jump with glee at the mere possibility of getting cake every day, and immediately start making homespun presents from clay, sticks, and rocks.

Which everyone totally wants for their birthday.

This year, however, the week of Josh was doomed from the start.

Business took him out of town on his birthday and the evening of Father's Day, something no man should ever have to do.

A search for the one present he actually wanted this year ended in disappointment as we discovered it will be back ordered for several weeks. (I have consented on this gift for a few reasons, one of them being that he'll just go out and buy it anyway, and the other because it just so happens to be the weapon of choice for my imaginary boyfriend, James Bond. Nothing wrong with bringing your fantasies to life, right?)

And just a few days shy of his actual birthday, his loving wife accidentally uploaded a system-crippling virus onto the family computer. Doing this resulted in hundreds of dollars shelled out to Geek Squad, and the eventual purchase of a new computer. A computer which everyone but the Husband will realistically use.

Top that off with the trip made to the Apple store wherein the loving wife was also purchased an i-phone. Ahem.

So, for his 37th year, the Husband generously shelled out a large sum of money to make others happy, put his own birthday wishes aside, and cheerfully ate a large slice of the driest birthday cake in history.


While the many layers seem enticing and delicious, it was, in fact, not.

Happy Week of Josh, baby. In spite of indications otherwise, you are extremely loved. It is the generosity of your spirit, your soul without guile, and your constant thought of others that makes you who you are.

And, um, here's hoping I do a little better next year.

I may need to get a job to pay for all the therapy these kids are going to need someday

Ever have one of those weeks where you feel like you have totally 'effed up most of it? Like maybe you (and your family) would have been better off if you'd just crawled into a hole and stayed there all week?

Here is a small sample of some of the things I 'effed up on this week:

• Threw out important work papers left on the table by the Husband. They had notes all over them that he needed for an important client meeting. Notes with language and words that were CRITICAL to his work for the client. Oops.
• Totally blanked on helping in a classroom at school, thereby stressing out one of my children.
• Threw something in the oven and completely forgot about it until the smoke alarms went off.
• Forgot to prep my child on a cub scout assignment which left him stammering and embarrassed in front of a room full of people.
• Yelled at my child for being out of bed, then discovered his reason for being out of bed was the throwing up he was doing in the bathroom.
• Spaced on being the tooth fairy and got caught in the act of leaving the money.
• Foolishly assumed that buying bite-sized sugar cookies would enable me to have just a nibble and feel satisfied. Not true, for you see, COOKIES ARE LIKE HEROIN. And I cannot stay away from them, no matter how hard I try. Is there rehab for cookie addicts?
• Ignored one child's seemingly vague request that he needed drumsticks for music at school, then got mad at him for not being more specific. Although, it's hard to be much more specific than, "I need drumsticks for music at school."

Mother of the year, no? Luckily, I can redeem myself today, at least in her eyes.

She's home sick with the strep, and I have just consented to watch all the Barbie movies while cuddling her hot, feverish body on the couch.

I'm pretty sure I deserve it.

Prisoners of my disease

To my three babies,

In light of a certain situation that took place this afternoon, I feel compelled to issue you a public apology and a pledge, from the bottom of my heart, to be better.

You see, in case you didn't know it by now, your mama has a touch of the OCD. And because I automatically know that Hannah's next question will be, "What is OCD?", I will tell you. OCD, loosely translated, means I am incapable of dealing with messes in our home -- in any way, shape, or form.

This is not your fault.

It is mine. Some may call it a disease; while others look at it with envy and wish they had it, too. But for me, it is the core essential of what makes me who I am.

However, from this day forward, I will try harder to let the natural children inside of you be allowed to come out and play. I will not roll my eyes and exhale my breath loudly when you go outside and the fresh grass clippings cling to your tiny feet.

I will be glad you are playing freely in the fresh air, instead of moaning at the mess I have to clean up.

I will be more understanding of your so-called "leaf collections," and admire your profound interest in nature. Even when I find pieces of them all over the carpet upstairs.

I will realize that most people (your father included) don't spend hours a day thinking about magic erasers and mop kits. Or get excited about new ways to organize closets, or search for ways to make laundry more efficient.

And I definitely will not yell at you for playing chef in my kitchen (especially if you asked me first), even when you break the garbage disposal while dumping your creation down the sink. Yes, you snuck a fast one in there because you asked me in the middle of my Sunday afternoon nap.

And we all know that I'll pretty much say yes to anything when I'm half asleep.

But I promise to try and not complain when you return inside with flushed cheeks and happy hearts, even when I look down to see all the mud you have brought in with you. Because you know what? I love you more than my clean floors.

And that, my darling babies, is really saying something.

Love,

Mama

Me not so suhmart no mor

Remember how a few days ago, I was all on top of my business and shouting "yes, I can" from the rooftops?

Nothing like a little slice of humble pie to bring you back to the reality of, "Umm, no, I really can't."

You see, I volunteer to help in my kids' classrooms. A lot. I like to be there, see how the teacher interacts with the students, and see how my kids interact with other kids.

Plus, I really have no excuse this year, what with them in school all day now.

So, I went to help in McKay's class for the first time this year. As soon as I enter the classroom, his teacher hands me a heavy math book. She points out the page the students are currently working on (which is multiplying with decimals). She smiles sweetly, and asks me if I'd feel comfortable teaching this concept to one of the groups, while she works with the other.

Panic immediately sets in. Math has never been my strong suit. But this is fifth grade math. Surely, I passed fifth grade math at some point in my life, right? I smile, and tell her, "Sure, no problem," and head for the white board.

To my surprise, things move along rather well. I find that I am actually pretty good at teaching the math. McKay gets over his instinctive embarrassment and even makes eye contact with me a few times, which is a huge victory in and of itself.

Well, just about the end of our time together, the teacher returns to the classroom with her group. At this moment, one of my students raises her hands and says, "Um, I got a different answer for that one." Before I can respond, the teacher notices my problem on the board, comes over, erases it, AND RE-DOES IT FOR ME.

Apparently, I am not so good at the fifth grade math.

I made a REALLY STUPID error and did not have my decimal in the right place. I knew it as soon as I looked at it, unfortunately a little too late.

But there, in front of my son, and all of his classmates, I looked like an idiot. I felt so dumb. I have no doubt she is wondering exactly what I had been teaching while she was out. I wanted to tell her that, "YES! I REALLY DO KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!"

But instead, I smiled, thanked her, and went to my car in a cloud of stupidity and shame.

And so, next week when I go in, I fully expect her to have a desk with my name on it.

Think McKay will be embarrassed if I have to repeat my fifth grade year?

Mother of the Year

Today after running on the treadmill (or what I like to call "Attempting to burn what I will eat at the Great Cookie Swap of 2007"), I went upstairs to take a shower. I took my time getting beautiful (because it DOES take a long time for me) and made sure I looked my best (I didn't).

It was then time to turn my attentions to the Princess and take her breakfast syrup-soaked tangles and turn them into something lovely. I called and called, but she didn't come. Not even when I used my loud yelling voice or my angry impatient voice.

Assuming she was paralyzed by the hypnotic powers of Noggin (because it's like preschool on TV!), I took a trip downstairs to retrieve her. It was not until I had my hand on the basement door that I heard her screams.

Rushing down, I find her head pinned awkwardly between a collapsed metal folding chair -- her body twisted and tangled -- and unable to get out. She was hysterical and sobbing (understandably). I pulled her free and felt pangs of guilt as I saw the large bruise on the left side of her face. I have no idea how long she had been like this, but I suspect quite a while.

What added salt to this already painful wound (for me, not her) was when she said, "I thought you were in the other room and just wouldn't come get me."

Yes. My child was painfully pinned between two pieces of metal and she thought I would not help her.

I must be the best mother. Ev-er.

Stupid Mondays.